


They Don't Teach French in Jail

by Sara_Ellison



Series: Loss of Balance [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Phone Sex, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Ellison/pseuds/Sara_Ellison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you can't love yourself...</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Don't Teach French in Jail

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this press event](http://the-dream-operator.tumblr.com/post/48133863260/as-the-french-press-laughs-x-is-he-joking-or).

After the press conference ends, Robert is first out the door. Gwyneth is right behind, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder, but he dodges and her fingertips just brush the back of his jacket. "Hey," she says, "you okay?" and he shrugs off her words like her touch.

"Yeah," he says. "It was a joke. You laughed."

He can hear her frowning at the back of his head, but she doesn't press the issue. When she slides into the limo beside him, he catches her worried look out of the corner of his eye, so he gives her a reassuring smile. "Dinner tonight?" he offers. "There's a place on the corner of George V and Champs Elysees that looks interesting." He makes no attempt at pronouncing the names in French, mangling them horribly, and Gwyneth suppresses a snicker.

"It's _George Cinq_ ," she corrects mildly, "and _Champs Élysées_." Her accent is flawless.

Robert shrugs. "See? I'm totally uncultured."

"Are you talking about the place with the green awnings over the patio, that always has a line out the door at any hour of the day?" she asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "We'll never get a table."

"I may have made reservations last week," Robert replies breezily. "Eight PM."

She grins and leans across the seat to kiss his cheek. "Guess I'd better say yes to dinner, then," she says.

They're back at the hotel by now. Robert pauses at the concierge desk to order a car for tonight; they could probably walk the few blocks, but he knows the kind of shoes Gwyneth likes to wear, and the sidewalks of Paris are not kind to stilettos. She heads up to her room while he converses with the concierge, and he lets his façade slip when she's out of sight.

To be honest, he's embarrassed by his outburst at the press conference. It actually _had_ started out as a joke, but he let himself go on too long and his bitterness slipped out. He's gotten too used to having Tom there to cover for him, from the last press junket.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he heads back to his room, as if on cue. He pulls it out and answers it. "Speak of the trickster and he shall appear," he says.

"If only you could summon me that easily," Tom replies. "You were speaking of me? Should I be flattered or worried?"

"Thinking, not speaking," Robert tells him, keying open the door. "A little of both, I guess."

"Why?" Tom asks. "What was it you were thinking?"

It's a loaded question, and Robert's glib tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

"Robert," Tom says, with a just-audible exhale, barely this side of a sigh, and his tone screams that his next words are going to be _We need to talk_ , and Robert's blood runs cold because he can't do this right now. A breakup will be the last thing he is capable of dealing with, not that he and Tom have ever bothered to define or label their relationship or what the hell they are to each other, but he's reasonably sure that if it ends right now Robert won't be able to remember how to continue existing.

"No," Robert says. He feels dizzy, and sits down hard on the edge of his bed. "No, please..." His fingers clench around a handful of the coverlet, desperate for something to hold on to.

"You don't really think those things about yourself, do you?" Tom says.

It takes Robert a few moments to figure out what the hell he's talking about. "You saw the press conference," he mumbles. Tom isn't breaking up with him, and the relief leaves him reeling harder than the fear. He shuts his eyes and lies back on the bed while the room swirls around him. His breathing is loud in his ears and his voice sounds like it's coming down a long metal tube. "Yeah. I don't know. Maybe."

There's silence from the other end. Robert grimaces. Blindly, he switches on the speakerphone and drops the phone on the bed beside him. "Are you pitying me?" he says.

"No," Tom answers, and Robert can hear it in his tone of voice--he's telling the truth, there's not an ounce of pity in him. "I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"What to do about this. You're wrong, and I need to convince you of that."

Robert opens his eyes, frowning at the ceiling. "What do you mean, I'm wrong?"

Tom's voice sounds briefly distant, as though he's moving around his room. "You called yourself an animal, and an ugly American."

Robert winces. That was the point at which his rant had gotten away from him. "I am an animal," he says.

Tom scoffs. "Maybe, but no more so than I am," he says. "All human beings are animals. If you were vegetable or mineral, I imagine this would be a very different conversation. You could be a mushroom, too."

Robert turns that over in his mind for a moment. "What, exactly, are you talking about?"

"We're talking about you," Tom says, and his voice is unexpectedly sharp. "Stand up."

Robert finds himself on his feet before he quite knows what's happening. "How did you know I wasn't already standing?" he demands.

"I could hear you wallowing," Tom says.

"I thought you said I wasn't an animal. Now I wallow?" Robert grumbles, glaring halfheartedly at his phone. "Guess I better cancel my dinner plans and find a trough to eat from."

"Quiet," Tom orders. His voice is soft but commanding, and Robert feels an odd compulsion to obey. "Is there a full-length mirror in your room?"

The closet doors are mirrored. "Yeah," Robert says warily.

"Good. Stand in front of it."

"Why?"

There's a pause. "Because I asked you to," Tom says at last. "I think it's in both our interests for you to do as I say right now."

Robert shivers, not unpleasantly. He wants to please Tom, of course, that's nothing new, but this shift in dynamic is strangely exciting. He picks up the phone and walks to the closet doors. "I'm in front of the mirror," he says.

"Good. Look at your reflection."

Robert has been studying the pattern on his tie. Reluctantly, he raises his eyes to his reflection's face. "Okay," he says, "I'm looking."

"Tell me what you see." Tom's voice is calm, steadying.

Robert frowns at himself, narrows his eyes, makes a face. He draws his lips back in a silent snarl. "I see a pathetic, old--"

"No." Tom's bark shuts him up instantly. "Get out of your own bloody head for a moment, would you? Pretend you're a stranger, and describe the man in front of you."

Robert closes his eyes, collecting himself. He gets out of his head, finding a character and slipping into the new skin. He looks at the attractive celebrity in front of him and squeals, his voice pitched to fangirl range. "Oh my God, it's that guy from Iron Man! He's so hot, oh my God, I wanna do him."

"Robert," Tom says warningly.

"Oh, is that his name?" Robert sighs dreamily, firmly in character. "I don't really care. He's such a fine piece of meat."

"Stop," Tom says. "Forget the fangirls. I want you to look at yourself through the eyes of someone who actually respects you."

"Like who?" Robert says. "You?" Tom's silence fails to shut him up--he's supposed to take over when Robert starts saying stupid things, but there's only the man in the mirror, staring back with hatred in his eyes. "When you saw Iron Man, you hoped to someday be in a movie like that. You were thrilled last year to get to throw me out a window. Highlight of your career. Am I wrong?"

"Is that what you think of me?" Tom's voice is very quiet, and Robert has to lift the phone towards his ear to hear. His sense of self-preservation lifts its head long enough to belatedly note that Robert is totally screwed, then promptly clocks out again. "I'm not a shrieking fan, Robert. I don't worship you as a celebrity or bask in your stardom. I'm your friend and your lover--you, Robert, not RDJ the actor or Tony Stark the character. Do you want to know how I see you?"

Robert shuts his eyes again, leaning forward to press his forehead against the cool glass. "Okay," he says.

"Open your eyes," Tom orders, his voice stronger again, and Robert starts because how did he know Robert had closed them? "Look at them in the mirror. Describe them to me."

He blinks. "Describe my eyes? They're brown. Vaguely spherical."

"And?" Tom prompts. "Describe the colour. Describe what you see in those eyes."

"They're the color of coffee. Or dirt. I dunno, they're shit-brown. What do you want from me, Tom?"

"I want you to take this seriously," Tom says, and that note of command is back in his voice, that tone that makes Robert's spine straighten unconsciously. "Do you want me to tell you what I see when I look into your eyes?"

"Not really," Robert says drily, but Tom ignores him.

"I see intelligence," he says. "You have a brilliant mind, and one look in your eyes should be enough to convince anyone that you're no animal. But it's more than just smarts. You have a cuttingly sharp wit. It's what makes it so enjoyable to watch you work."

"I thought that was the special effects and explosions," Robert says.

"If special effects and explosions made a good film, Revenge of the Sith would have an armful of Oscars," Tom retorted. "I'm talking about your skill as an actor."

"I thought you were talking about my eyes."

"I am," Tom agrees. "Hush."

"Yes, sir," Robert quips, and he might be imagining Tom's audibly indrawn breath but he hopes he's not.

"We haven't gotten to the most important thing I see in your eyes," Tom says. "There is great depth to them. A man could fall into your eyes and be lost forever, if he spent too long in your eyes. You have such capacity for emotion."

"Really," Robert says, and he's trying to be facetious, but his voice comes out hushed, like he's starting to believe it. "What else?"

"Your eyes are the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."

"Okay," Robert says, "now you're just being sappy and ridiculous."

Tom chuckles. "If you say so. We can move on to your mouth, if you like. Go on, describe it to me."

Robert regards the curve of his lips in the mirror. Unconsciously, he licks them. “Well,” he begins, and starts to smirk. “I’ve heard I’m a pretty damn good kisser.”

“Is that so,” Tom muses. “Go on.”

“Oh yeah,” Robert continues. “The things I can do with my tongue.”

“I am vaguely familiar,” Tom says drily, but there’s a low undertone to his voice. “I’m rather fond of that tongue.”

“Yeah?” Robert says. He sticks his tongue out at the mirror.

“I like what your tongue says,” Tom continues. “I like the words that come from your lips. The sweet things along with the filth. I like the space between your lips when you’re saying nothing at all, when you’re looking up at me and just breathing because I’ve made you forget how to speak. I like the way your lower lip feels between my teeth when I bite down on it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Robert says. He watches himself flush in the mirror, creeping up from his collar to stain his cheekbones. His lips are parted now, breath coming fast, and his eyes are dark behind his glasses. “What other parts of my body do you like?”

“Are you still wearing the clothes from the press conference?”

Robert blinks. “What?”

“The suit you were wearing. Are you still--”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I want to be sure my mental image is accurate,” Tom says. “Take off the jacket. And the tie.”

“Okay,” Robert says, slightly breathless. He shrugs out of the jacket and opens the closet to hang it up, then shuts the door again, tugging his tie to loosen it before pulling it over his head.

“Good,” Tom says. “Unbutton your collar.” He waits a beat for Robert to do so. “I want you to touch your throat.”

Robert raises his hand and drags his fingertips from his collarbone to his jaw, feeling the pounding of his pulse, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the rasp of his afternoon stubble.

“You feel that?” Tom says. “I love that, the way your skin feels in the evening when your beard’s coming back in, the way it scrapes under my lips. I love the taste of your skin. I want to sink my teeth into you and leave my mark.”

“Fuck,” Robert groans. He leans forward, resting his forehead on the glass, breathing hard.

“Take off your shirt,” Tom says. “And your belt. Shoes and socks.”

Robert hurries to comply, fingers fumbling on his buttons, nearly dropping the phone. “Yeah,” he says, when he’s down to just his tented trousers. “Okay.” He curls his toes against the carpet, letting the rough softness ground him.

For a moment, Tom doesn’t speak. Robert hears his breath, thick and hot over the phone. “Tell me,” he says at last, and that’s enough.

“My skin is hot,” he says, running a hand over his chest, trailing down his abdomen. “Smooth. I can feel my muscles shift under the skin when I move. I can feel my heart pounding beneath my ribcage.” He presses his palm over it, catching his nipple between his fingertips, his breath hitching.

“God,” Tom says, and his voice sounds wrecked. Robert’s cock gives a jerk of sympathy inside his pants. “Okay. Your trousers, now. Off.”

“Yes, sir,” Robert says, and he knows he’s not imagining Tom’s sharp hiss of breath. He holds the phone at his hip as he draws his zipper down so Tom can hear it. He lets the slacks drop to the floor and steps out of them. “What about my boxers?”

“Not just yet. Tell me about your thighs.”

Robert grins. “My thighs don’t look their best right now.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” Tom asks.

“Because they look best wrapped around your waist,” Robert tells him, “or draped over your shoulders.”

“Robert...” There’s warning in his tone, but there’s desire as well, his voice verging on a moan.

Robert smirks back at his own reflection. “Yes?”

“Pants off. Now.”

Grinning, Robert hooks his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his boxers and pulls them carefully off, freeing his straining cock. He doesn’t need to be prompted this time. “I’m hard as granite,” he says. “Thick, and red, and starting to leak a little.” He runs a careful fingertip over the head, gathering the slick fluid, and brings it to his mouth. He sucks noisily, slurping at it. “Salty,” he says, “musky, almost sweet even.”

Tom moans again, so low it almost doesn’t come through the speaker. “Get on the bed. Lie on your back. Don’t touch yourself until I say so.”

It’s that last command that’s the hardest to obey as Robert sprawls on his back, legs splayed open and cock curving up toward his belly, aching for release. He drops the phone on the bed beside him, near his shoulder, and clenches his hands in the coverlet again. “Okay,” he says, “I’m here. What now?”

“I would like,” Tom drawls, “for you to suck on your fingers.” He releases every word from his mouth as though it’s an oath, and Robert shivers. “Two, at least. More if you like.”

Robert’s whimper of desire is muffled by the hand he presses to his mouth. He’s desperate; he wants to be kissing Tom, or sucking his cock, or eating him out, anything involving his mouth and Tom’s body. His own fingers across his lips are about as good as a diet soda to a sugar craving. He curls his tongue around them, closing his eyes and sucking hard.

“That’s it,” Tom purrs in his ear. “Get them nice and wet.” His breath shudders.

Robert pulls his fingers out of his mouth, slick with saliva. “Are you touching yourself?” he demands. “That’s not fair.”

“Are you challenging me?” Tom says, darkly amused. “I think you should fuck yourself now.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Robert groans. He brings his knees up, planting his feet on the bed, and presses his fingers to his hole, circling until the fingertip slips inside, breaching the ring of muscle. He exhales as he pushes both fingers in to the third knuckle. “Oh, God,” he breathes. It isn’t anywhere near as good as Tom’s cock, but he can pretend really hard--he makes a living out of playing pretend. It helps when he crooks his fingers against his prostate, making his toes curl.

“Tell me,” Tom growls. Robert can hear him panting--fuck, he can hear the slick slide of his hand on his cock. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“Not as good as if you were here,” Robert grits out. He pulls his fingers back and thrusts them in again, matching Tom’s pace. “I wish it were your dick inside me.” His breath trembles on a moan. “I wanna stroke myself.”

“Not yet,” Tom says.

“Please,” Robert begs. “I’m so hard, it’s so good--you wouldn’t believe how much I’m leaking, Tom, _please_ , I need to come.” He’s clenching around his fingers involuntarily, needing more.

“You’ll come,” Tom says, “as soon as you touch your prick, won’t you. You’re going to wait until you absolutely can’t stand it any longer.”

“Sadist,” Robert accuses. “I already can’t stand it, Tom.”

“I like when you say my name,” Tom says, and his very voice is a sin. Robert can hear his breath, nearly moaning with each exhale. “Tell me how badly you need to come.”

“I’m dying, Tom,” Robert says, and it doesn’t feel like an exaggeration. “I’m going to explode, Tom. My blood is on fire. Tom, my balls are swollen like grapefruits. My come is gonna shoot into orbit, Tom.”

The sound Tom makes is half a laugh, half a moan. “Say it again,” he says.

“ _Tom_ ,” Robert moans. His cock feels like a leaden rod between his legs, hard and heavy and impossible to ignore. “ _Please_. I need it.”

“Okay,” Tom says. “Do it. Make yourself come for me, Robert.” His voice is strung out like a bowstring, panting, eager and desperate.

Robert wraps his other hand around his cock and cries out in relief. It’s too much too suddenly, and he squeezes himself hard in a vain attempt to temper it, jerking himself as though he can spread out the climax so it won’t kill him all at once. “Oh God,” he cries, “fuck, _Tom!_ ” He hears Tom’s bitten-off gasp and then he isn’t even on this planet anymore, he can’t see the room around him or feel the bed under his back. He’s in the middle of a supernova, exploding into blinding light with the force of a cosmic cataclysm.

He’s shaking when he comes back down to Earth, and it’s a few long moments before he can speak. There’s silence from his phone, and he turns his head toward it as though that will bring him closer to the man on the other end. “Tom,” he croaks, when he can. There’s come in his beard.

“Robert,” Tom drawls, smug and sated. “Tell me.”

Robert chuckles. “Shot way past orbit,” he says. “God, I needed that.”

“Yeah?” Tom says. “Do you still think you’re an animal?”

“In all the best ways,” Robert replies. “You love that I’m an animal.”

“Mhm,” Tom agrees. “Still think you’re ugly?”

“How dare you? I’m fucking gorgeous.” He stretches languidly. “Can I ask you something, though?”

“Of course,” Tom says.

“Why do you care so much what I think of myself?”

“Because,” Tom says. “If you can’t love yourself, how the hell can you love somebody else?”

There’s a bit of an awkward pause before Robert asks, “Did you just--”

“No,” Tom says quickly.

“You did!” Robert says. “I heard you.”

“Did not,” Tom protests. “You must have been hallucinating.”

“You quoted RuPaul!” Robert crows, laughing.

“Oh!” Tom says. “That. Yes. I thought you meant the other thing.”

“The other thing being the one where you want me to love you?” Robert asks lightly.

“That’s the one that I didn’t--I mean, I never said--I said somebody else, I didn’t say me, necessarily, you know, just in general.”

“What I want to know,” Robert says, “is what exactly gave you the impression that I don’t.”

There’s silence from the phone. Robert scratches idly at the come drying on his chest. “Okay,” Tom says at last. “That is a fair point. And, er. You know, just so you know--”

“I know,” Robert agrees. He picks up the phone and plants a kiss on it so Tom can hear. “I really wish you were here. I wouldn’t let you out of this bed.”

“Oh, really?” Tom says, amused. “How would you keep me there?”

“I’d kiss you senseless,” Robert answers, “for starters.” He glances at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand and groans. “As it is, I’d better hit the shower. I’ve got dinner plans with Gwyneth.”

He can hear Tom’s disappointment coming across the phone in waves. “All right,” he says. “Give her my love. I’ll be thinking about you in the shower.” He sends back a kiss of his own and hangs up.

Clean and dressed again, he encounters Gwyneth in front of the elevators. He grins at her and pulls her into a one-armed half-hug, holding her against his side. “You seem to be in a good mood,” she comments.

In her heels, she towers over him. He leans his head on her shoulder. “I am,” he agrees. The elevator arrives with a ding, and he dances a couple steps into the car and lifts his arm to twirl her. “I love myself,” he informs her.

She snorts, unladylike and mirthful. “That’s nothing new.”

“True.” He leans up to kiss her on the cheek. “By the way, Tom sends his love.”

“Does he? That’s sweet.” She takes the arm he offers as they reach the ground floor.

“Of course, most of it’s for me,” he adds. “But I guess you can have a little.”

“Aw,” she says. “Most of Tom’s love is for you? That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

The car is waiting for them at the curb. “No,” Robert says, “that’s sappy. Don’t be sappy.”

She grins up at him as she slides over on the seat. “Sweetheart, you’ve got sap all over your face.”

“I do? Shit, I thought I washed my sap off.” He rubs a hand over his chin.

“Ew!” She thwacks him lightly with her clutch. “That's not what I meant, and juvenile.”

“Hi, have you met me?” Robert grins at her.

“Unfortunately,” she sighs.

“Don’t lie, you love me,” he says.

“You love yourself enough for the both of us,” she retorts. “And if you didn’t, there’s Tom to make up the difference, and about a billion fans.”

“I’m not counting the fans,” Robert says. “I’m just counting Tom. Don’t really need anyone else.”

She smirks at him. “Sap,” she says.


End file.
